


let me give you my life

by pxint



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Career Ending Injuries, Crossroads Deals & Demons, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-26
Updated: 2019-02-26
Packaged: 2019-11-05 21:28:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17926682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pxint/pseuds/pxint
Summary: “You want something, don’t you Connor.”





	let me give you my life

**Author's Note:**

> i watched one (1) video on crossroads and immediately decided to do this b/c i still vividly remember connor fucking his ankle up and thought it was a great opportunity to just completely blow that up!!
> 
> anyways a little (or very) hand wavey my bad
> 
> title from “take me to church” by hozier b/c it’s probably the only religious song i’m at all familiar with

Connor is a fresh-faced rookie and a brand new call-up when his career ends. It’s still October. It’s 2015 and it’s too early, too soon. It happens on a moment’s notice, a whim, a bad fall and then the ice in his eyes and a jolt of shock as the world lurches backwards. 

There are voices. He hears them sprouting here, and there, and there, voices that he’s caught in and suffocating under while they twirl frantic words around his head. 

“Connor--Brownie, I need you to open your eyes,” someone says, and Connor can barely get the words out to tell him his eyes _are_ open. Because he’s squinting, the light trapped in his pupils, and all he can see is white, white, white. 

It reminds him vaguely of the light he’s supposed to stay away from, _that_ light, and he’d laugh if he could. It’s far too soon for that.

Connor says, “I’m okay.” Connor says, “it’s fine, I’m fine.” He’s very insistent about it, directly to the point, even if all he wants to do is clutch his ankle and writhe on the ice. But not in front of the eyes of his new coach, his new team, a city he loves and wants to be loved by. Even as a Leaf. It’s all very new. Connor’s only twenty-one.

When he’s helped off the ice and sent to get his ankle checked out, his head is spinning. He can barely focus on much more than the pain that bites and tears at the tendons of his leg. There isn’t much for him to do other than wait. Wait and wait and wait. 

It’s in the physician’s eyes when he approaches Connor, standing by the side of his bed with furrowed brows and set shoulders. Connor almost wants to ask who died, but he’s afraid of the answer. 

He quietly brings his fingers to his wrist. There’s still a pulse. 

He’s injured, is what the doctor tells him. As if Connor wasn’t aware. “You’re going to need surgery,” he says, and, “we’re going to get you back on your feet in no time. You‘ll be able to walk and run.”

“What about hockey?” Connor asks, because it’s what he’s built his life around. It _is_ his life. Without it, he thinks, he’s nothing.

The doctor frowns. It isn’t a promising answer. 

-

How unfortunate, the articles exclaim. A lifetime of hockey down the drain, a season cut short all after a mere fall, an accident, a mistake. Such horrible news. 

Connor can feel his heart break and thinks it might hurt worse than his ankle. Maybe because it’s his heart that won’t recover with just rest and ice. 

He knows he’s too old to cry, but he’s just old enough to know if nobody sees him, he can slip it into a box and refuse to let it out. 

-

When Connor was no older than thirteen, he got on his bike and pedalled out of the city with ambition flaring strong in the back of his chest and earbuds slotted in his ears. 

He was trying for an adventure. Around the street is what he decided at first. The neighbourhood is what he thought next, then it was to the high school not far from his house, and he kept going.

His mp3 player was nearly dead in his pocket by the time he stopped biking and gently set it on the ground, a soft breath of air leaving his lungs as he took a seat on the grassy patch by the street. 

It wasn’t even a street at that point. Instead, a dirt path, lined with rocks and sticks. There was lamp in the center of the intersection to drape the haziest glow overtop distorted shadows and fill in the silent spaces between trees that sat there mocking him. Calling him. Luring. 

Connor knew not to give in. So, he sat there. On one of the warmest autumn evenings he’s ever been blessed with, sitting there breathing in the night air, listening to the crickets, wishing it would snow. 

He saw a boy then. 

He looked older, with dark eyes and lips twisted into something too similar to a smile to be anything else. But it didn’t fit the situation, didn’t fit the racing of Connor’s heart as he realized that the boy had come out of nowhere, the one with fiery red hair and a face that glowed beneath the dripping starlight. 

It was normal, everything about him.

But, “You want something, don’t you Connor,” the boy had said, and Connor’s polite exterior melted on the spot. His expression fading, his stomach clenching, and each and every molecule of confidence within him shriveled into something nearly non-existent.

That wasn’t some farm boy who’d wandered away from a little house tucked away in rural Ontario. It--there was no way.

The boy blinked back some of the calm in his expression, maybe realizing that Connor had stiffened in his spot and gone maybe three times paler than he’d already been. 

“Ah,” he had said, frowning. “We’ve been waiting for you. You aren’t ready?” 

It took time, but Connor finally managed, “who are you,” with the nervous shake of his voice and eyes that barely focused. 

The boy shook his head at him. 

When he disappeared, Connor was left with nothing more than the now flickering bulb of the street lamp, and the dull shine of the city behind it. 

He’s never ridden a bike as fast as he did then.

-

Connor’s stuck in Ontario for long enough that he lets his car and long empty roads take him right back to that same intersection in the country, where the city is just far enough away for the bustle to fade into something he can just ignore. 

He’s on crutches. Maybe that’s what makes this sting even more, every single sound from the pathway beneath him once he steps onto it makes the _you want something_ spinning circles in his head just a little louder. Something he can’t quite leave out of his thoughts.

Maybe that’s what gets the shadow to appear, the long line of inky black beneath the figure standing under the lamp. The very same lamp he’d seen years ago, flickering and buzzing a dull tune. It’s all white noise in Connor’s ears, too focused on trying not to look away. He’s afraid it’ll-- _he’ll_ disappear again. The boy.

Although, he seems to know when he’s wanted.

“Not looking great,” the boy says simply, eyes reflecting pools of gold beneath the darkness of the night. “I knew you’d be back.” 

Coming here was a shot in the dark, Connor thought at first. But everything made all the more sense with what he’d looked up about crossroads, and late nights that nearly meld into the morning, and strange figures that know his name. Connor thinks maybe if he looked hard enough he could find horns beneath the hair on his head. 

“You know who I am,” Connor says, trying to keep his voice flat and closed off. It’s better to do it that way, rather than to get lost in meek questions that let his vulnerability run free. 

“Everyone knows who Connor Brown is,” the boy says. Or, well, he isn’t a boy anymore. Older, with crow’s feet around his eyes when his mouth curls into a vicious smile. Maybe he’s around Connor’s age. “Terrible luck, what happened to you.”

Something inside Connor spews poison and fire, this frustration at listening to the words. It all sounds mocking, throwing stones at him while Connor’s trying to balance his weight on a dirt road. It’s harder, with crutches. “I want to play hockey again,” he snaps.

Listening to whatever this guy has to say isn’t going to do him any good. The sooner he can leave the better.

“But you can’t,” he says, like he’s trying to slowly string the request out of Connor. The wish he’s got sitting at the tip of his tongue. 

It hurts that this creature is the only thing in the world that won’t look at him with sad eyes and pity. Instead, he’s the only one who looks at Connor as though he’s got something he wants. Maybe that’s just how this works.

“I _will_ ,” Connor insists, trying his hardest not to lose the hope that comes with it. “I want another chance, that’s all I need. I don’t want help winning, _cheating_. I just want my chance.” 

“You’ve blown your chance,” the man says. His voice is hard, picking at Connor until he feels exhausted. 

“I have something you want,” Connor tells him, and something crystallizes over the man’s face. This shock that fades nearly instantly into a smug knowing, a look like he’s done this before. He must not get sick of it.

“The price is steep, you know how it is. A shorter life, hellhounds on your tail.”

“The price will always be steep.” Connor doesn’t know what to do with himself underneath the sharp, sharp gaze from a creature that’s supposed to be coercing him to sell his soul. It’s in his eyes, waiting to strike. 

Connor wonders if this is where all his nightmares as a child came from.

“And you want to play hockey,” the man says, like he’s testing the words out on his tongue. 

“It’s all I want,” Connor insists. He was the top rookie scorer in the AHL last year, a chance is really all he would ever need.

There’s a beat where the man just looks at him, stepping forward so the two of them are standing right in the middle of the crossroads. “Then I’d say you have a deal,” he tells him.

Connor takes his hand when he holds it out. It’s warm, and soft, and he wonders if he’s imagining the tingle of heat that pools into his palm as he pulls away. 

“What can I call you,” Connor rushes out, before the man gets a chance to leave. “Your name--give me a name.” 

“It isn’t important.” 

“To me it is.” Connor can feel his brow twitching, lowering into something less than welcoming he hopes. “You know mine.”

There’s a beat of hesitation between them, silence heavy in the air. Connor can feel his stomach turn. “Alright,” the man says, and eventually, “Frederik.” 

Connor looks at him, a small once-over. “You’re a demon called Frederik,” he comments. “Not something biblical, or Greek, or like. Ominous.”

Frederik narrows his eyes at him, judgmental. His lashes cast spidery shadows over his cheeks. “Nice meeting you, Connor.”

When he leaves, Connor’s left alone once again. With the flicker of the street lamp, the crickets tucked away beneath the trees, and his thoughts. 

Just, this time there’s a feeling in the pit of his stomach. Nerves and fright and anticipation for the wait ahead of him. 

-

It doesn’t take long for the ache in his ankle to turn to something non-existent, dispersing far sooner than anyone had expected. He gets full mobility back, and with his shock packed away into a tiny box his doctor clears him to play hockey. Something he says shouldn’t even be _possible_.

There’s something about wishing, hoping, and praying for a chance that goes hollow when he remembers it’s all because of the crossroads. When he walks into a locker room to grins and pats on the shoulder just to sit down at his stall and feel a dark twist in his chest. He’s giving up so much for this. He wants to make it count. He has to. 

He plays with the Marlies his first game back.

They beat the Utica Comets 7-1 and Connor scores two goals in the first period. 

-

There’s a phantom throbbing in his ankle when they walk down the tunnel, the boys laughing and cheering, and if Connor wasn’t friends with them he’d say they were all practically indistinguishable in their glee. 

Connor touches his fingers to his ankle, rolling it like he can’t believe it. That it’s there. 

“You gotta stop worrying about that thing,” one of his linemates tells him, his voice happy and lilted.

Which is something Connor can do. So, he does.

-

The very next year, Connor‘s confident that he’ll be cracking the Leafs roster. From what he’s heard and how his seasons gone. The Marlies lost in the eastern conference finals but he was racking up the points to make him just as valid a candidate as anyone else.

Toronto drafts a superstar from some Swiss league at first overall and the city is overridden by this sense of hope and pride. A shitty playoff season’s come to an end and they’re searching for something better. Something more.

Connor gets to skate during the off-season. That’s something he never thought he’d do again.

It’s good, and great, and better, and then news breaks about an incoming trade and when Connor hears all about a promising goaltender named Frederik Andersen he nearly trips over himself.

He recognizes the smile in the pictures he sees, the little glint in his eyes, and the way he holds himself. Confident, sure, anything but nervous. Connor’s mouth goes dry and his first instinct is to flee.

-

Frederik ends up being _very_ liked in the room, maybe it’s his hair, or his charm, or just some fucking spell he’s put on the rest of his teammates which Connor doesn’t even think he can do, but he convinces himself of it pretty damn quickly. 

Frederik says, “hi,” with a little smile playing on his lips like this isn’t the third time they’ve met. 

So, “Hey, I’m Connor,” he offers through gritted teeth and a calm facade that slips right up when they lock eyes. Because they’re in front of the guys he quickly tacks on, “Frederik, right?” 

“I don’t mind Freddie,” he says, lacing up his skates.

Connor’s breath doesn’t come out right when they hit the ice, and maybe it’s Freddie in net that does it. Freddie--god, he doesn’t even want to think about calling him that, but it’s what he calls him when they win that game. And then the next, and the next. 

It was a robbery of a trade, people are saying. Connor hears it loud and clear, it very well could’ve been.

Freddie’s smile when they catch gazes after his first shutout says it all. 

-

“Why are you here,” Connor snaps, when they’re tucked far away from the team. Far enough that he gets his chance to speak without worrying about hearing from Zach about being unwelcoming 

“Why not,” Freddie says, like he has the _right_ to say it. Like Connor doesn’t see him and feel his hands shake with anxiety. 

This has gone on long enough. He’s supposed to leave now. He’s supposed to let Connor do this on his own. 

“I’m not dead,” he tells him. “You can come get me when I’m _dead_.” 

Freddie blinks at him.

“Oh, god, I’m dead.”

Something passes over Freddie’s face, something like disbelief or bewilderment, maybe both. Connor still has a pulse in his wrist. Beating in quick spikes. 

“It’s easier like this, I know where you are at all times, you know,” Freddie explains, sticking his hands in his pockets. “I’m gonna give you a career that isn’t shit.” 

It sounds good to him, but it still seems vaguely like cheating. Something Connor doesn’t think he’d ever let himself do. But then he sees that look on Freddie’s face, and it feels okay to let this happen. For a little.

“Okay,” Connor sighs. “Okay.” 

-

As it turns out, Freddie isn’t shitty at what he does.

Probably magic, Connor thinks, and immediately drains his thoughts of any praise he wants to give him. 

But it doesn’t help. It really, really doesn’t--by the time the spring rolls around, they’re connected at the hip. Freddie’s over at Connor’s long enough that they’re familiar with just about everything when it comes to one another. Freddie counts the digits of his fingers when he’s nervous, he sinks his teeth into his bottom lip when he thinks, and Connor likes the feeling of his head on his shoulder when he ends up falling asleep on it. Freddie has very nice shoulders.

He’s even got himself this fake family, and Connor doesn’t even want to think about how he managed to do that. Freddie’s some Danish goaltending legend, and so was his father, and his mother is sweet with her smiles and bright eyes and she bakes, too, which--Connor doesn’t think he has a fucking demon family. Or however this works, those are real humans and they both bleed red. And somehow they’ve been convinced Freddie’s their son. 

But there’s a part of Connor that likes having Freddie around. He likes it a lot actually, likes hanging around with him, and talking to him, even if he knows this inevitably means some fucking hound is dragging Connor straight to hell because of it. Someday. Just not today.

So that is of no concern to Connor, who gets to play his lovely game and drive Freddie absolutely insane over the most trivial matters. They’re friends. And it’s fine.

-

“No cup this year,” Connor breathes out, staring up at the roof of Freddie’s truck. 

He’d been completely unconvinced of Freddie’s so-called ability to drive at first, but somehow he knows the streets too well. Connor doesn’t want to ask why, doesn’t want to dig up some secrets that he’s kept tucked away from everyone else, so he shuts his mouth and occupies his thoughts with something else.

Like how Freddie’s eyes on him in the locker room made him feel warm and squirmy all over. That look full of something softer than pity, something just short of an apology.

When Connor shuts his eyes all he can see is white and red. The Capitals. He pries them open. 

“No cup,” Freddie returns, his fingers snug around the steering wheel. Connor keeps looking. It’s easier to focus on something other than the game when it’s Freddie he’s looking at. “Next year.”

“I don’t know how long I have,” Connor rasps. 

“Long enough,” Freddie returns, looking at him with eyes hazed over by something that almost looks like worry.

Connor’s seen that look before. Not on Freddie. But rather, the doctor who’d told him he’d never play hockey again. The trainer that walked him off the ice with a shattered ankle. The teammate that tried to get Connor to keep his eyes open.

His parents when he came home with stories of the mysterious farmboy he’d met beneath lamp light.

“That isn’t true,” he says, soft.

“It’s _my_ contract,” he tells him, and then, lighter, “What, you wanna go to hell right now?” 

Connor huffs at him. “ _You_ go to hell.”

Freddie grins. It’s almost vicious, the way he wears it. “Don’t make me say I’ve been to hell and back, because I have.” 

-

Connor wakes up exactly twice with his mouth on Freddie’s collarbone and a hand curled around the back of his own neck. It’s always warm and calloused and Connor never wants to leave. 

They don’t do anything, Connor doesn’t even know if that’s _allowed_ , or whether or not it’s even a good idea, but it’s just cuddling. It’s just Connor pressing his face into the crook of his neck and letting his lips brush the skin there. It’s Freddie holding him close, his fingers brushing the hair at the nape of his neck, and that’s all it has to be.

To Connor, this is all just apart of the overly friendly shit they do. It’s the same as when they watch movies in boxers and thin shirts, with Connor practically draped over him. It’s the same as Connor showing up at Freddie’s house in the middle of the night just to hang out. It’s the same as when Connor spends too long looking and Freddie catches him, and Freddie says nothing about it. 

“Good morning,” Connor mumbles, a little quiet as he backs away and sits up. 

“Nothing good about it,” Freddie murmurs, yawning as he rubs his eyes. 

Connor keeps looking

Freddie looks back. Smiles. “One good thing, then. Just one.”

Connor wonders how he let this get just that far, but goes right back to him.

That’s the first time.

-

The second time, when Connor tries shifting away, Freddie rolls over and lies flat on his stomach, arms tucked underneath the pillow. He’s peaceful like this, lashes fluttering and his breath coming out in long pulls in and out. 

That’s when Connor sees the two frail white lines running down the expanse of his back. They look like scars, maybe, the way they curve down and stop just short of his boxers. 

Connor wants to touch. He wants to trail his fingers down them and see if he can feel the mark, if it’ll tell him anything about how they got there, where they came from. 

“Watching me sleep, creep?” Freddie mumbles, it comes out all slurred together, tiredness thick in his throat. “You could’ve warned me before going psycho on me.” 

Connor chews on his lip. He knows he shouldn’t keep watching the scars. Because Freddie looks at him, confused, and follows his eyes. But it’s a little too late.

And it’s pretty easy to determine what he’s looking at when the only things in sight are the taut muscles of his back and the faded scars that run over them. 

“Oh,” Freddie says. He almost looks disappointed. 

“What are those? What happened?” 

“That’s--that doesn’t matter right now,” Freddie tells him, and flips over like he’s self-conscious. Like Connor’s eyes boring into the marks makes his face burn with the embarrassment of it all. 

“Did someone hurt you?” 

“No, _nobody_ hurt me,” Freddie says, his voice coming out defensive. “You’re nosey, you know that? Keep out of other people’s shit.” 

Connor frowns at him. “It’s a little hard when you’re half naked in my bed.” 

“I could leave. If you want me to, I can just _leave_.” Freddie almost looks hurt, something unsteady splattered all across his features. It’s odd, seeing something other than serene easy emotion in his face. 

Frederik Andersen is monotone and closed off, that’s all he ever hears, but this is Freddie and he’s vulnerable and looks _lost_ and Connor doesn’t want him to feel that way. God, Connor just. He doesn’t know _why_. 

“Freddie, please don’t,” he says. “I just wanted to know. I want--“

“They were wings,” Freddie tells him, his breath caught in his throat. “Wings that I don’t have anymore, that I won’t get back.”

Connor narrows his eyes at him. “That doesn’t make sense.”

“How much do you know about angels?”

“Why would I know anything about them.” 

“Okay,” Freddie says, looking as though he’s on the brink of giving up on this conversation. “Okay, that’s--okay. Angels have wings.” 

Connor blows out a little breath. “I know,” he says, and Freddie shakes his head. When he sits up and slips out of bed, all Connor finds himself looking at are the lines on his back. 

That’s when it hits.

-

“You don’t talk to me,” Connor snaps, his voice harsh but hovering right below his breath. 

They’re at the back of the team bus. The closest person to them is Zach, his face pressed gracelessly to the window and earbuds in. Connor knows him well enough to know he plays his music at the lowest possible setting to avoid, like, ear damage or something. Connor loves him. 

“I’m talking to you right now,” Freddie says, but Connor knows he knows what he’s talking about. 

“You don’t talk to me about my contract,” Connor tells him. “You don’t talk to me about getting dragged down to hell, or why you’re still here, or how you used to be a fucking angel, man. You don’t--“

“Because none of that matters,” Freddie rushes out, all frantic and in one quick breath. 

“I don’t matter to you?”

“You matter,” Freddie tells him, looking exhausted. “Would I be here if you didn’t? Would I be dealing with any of your shit if I could drag you down right now? I could do it. I’ve held up my side of the contract.” 

Connor blinks at him. He hates the way that makes his stomach burn with fear. The way it makes everything inside him shut down. “But.”

“But nothing. Connor, you could’ve had anything in the world but you asked for a second chance. You wanted to be humble and a good person and you didn’t want to--what, _cheat?_ ” Freddie pushes his hair out of his face. “I granted your wish in a month, I gave you what you wanted. And that was enough for you, wasn’t it? You gave up your soul for that, you fucking idiot. You could’ve had anything.” 

“What does it matter to you? You get what you need,” Connor says, frowning at him. “I just wanted to be happy.”

“You wanted a chance.”

“That’s what you gave me.” 

“You sold your soul for a second chance. I’ve done this for years, for longer than you could even imagine, and you came to me and asked me for a chance. Do you know how weak that is?” Freddie looks genuinely stressed, maybe terrified. Connor’s never seen him like this. He’s worried he’s the one who caused it. 

Connor’s breath feels funny coming out, like it’s forcing its way out of his throat. “It’s all I wanted.”

“And I have to watch you go to hell because of it,” Freddie says. “I can’t let you do that.” 

Connor opens his mouth to disagree, to say something to tell him it’ll be okay. To be the cliche Canadian that lives inside of him and tell him all he needs to be happy all eternity is hockey, but he says, “where did your wings go?” 

Freddie stares straight ahead, his gaze cold. “Connor.” 

“I want to know.” 

“They’re gone,” he says. “They were taken. I couldn’t do anything about it.” Freddie looks like he’s pouring his world out to Connor, and there’s something heavy to it. Connor isn’t sure he’s supposed to be hearing any of this. Freddie says as much. Tells him he can’t tell him much else, but Connor thinks he can stitch together the answers to his questions according to the pained look on Freddie’s face.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, and reaches out to touch Freddie’s hand. It’s cold. “I’m so sorry.” 

-

Connor isn’t supposed to think about Freddie as much as he does, but that’s where he trips up. When he lays in bed at night with spiralling thoughts of the pink of his lips, the long expanse of his back, just how hot his breath is against Connor in the mornings. It makes his skin prickle with something unrecognizable. 

Sometimes, Connor lets himself want. Sometimes, it happens all without his control and he can’t quite fight it off. 

But it’s okay, he thinks. Because Freddie doesn’t know. Because it’s something he can feel and keep to himself. Something he can take to the grave.

And when Freddie looks at him with eyes full of joy and touches him with hands that he thinks could make him melt in just the right ways, he thinks that would be worth going to hell for.

-

Soft fingers trail over the lines of Connor’s palm, like breeze through a meadow, and Connor squeezes his eyes shut and lets them pass. 

They’re on an airplane this time, the window next to his seat curtained by nothing more than the inky black sky speckled with clouds. All looking like cotton puffs. 

“This is where your contract’s written,” Freddie’s soft voice tells him, and his thumb brushes right over his palm again. He wonders if he’s imagining the way heat pools to that exact spot. Like Freddie pulled it from his veins.

Connor glances down. There’s nothing there. No ink, no glimmer, nothing that proves it. So, “how do you know?” he asks. 

“Because I do,” Freddie says simply, a tiny smile stretching his lips. “It’s beautiful. If you could see it, you’d think so, too. All you wanted was a chance. That’s all it says.” 

Connor keeps his eyes trained on Freddie’s face, and he whispers something in a language Connor doesn’t think he’s ever heard, a finger travelling in loops overtop his palm.

“Oh,” he says.

“You were a fool not to ask for more, you know.” 

Connor nods his head, letting it fall against Freddie’s shoulder. “I know,” he says. His voice comes out softer than he intends. “You’re right.” 

-

The leafs win, and win, and win, and Connor’s a top six player with all the potential in the world. Even then, Freddie‘s an elite goaltender that makes it harder for Ducks fans to sleep at night. It’s perfect.

The leafs win, and win, but they can never make it past the first round. 

It’s hard, being at the bottom. But it’s even harder to recognize that that’s just where you are. 

It’s a quiet night in Toronto when they’re eliminated in just a handful of games. And Connor would rather shut his eyes and forget any of them happened instead of relive them through questions from reporters. 

Questions devoid of pity, things that force him to think back to that one wrong thing he did, or the ones that force him to pick out teammates, the ones that make everything feel even worse than it already did. 

Two years in a row, this has happened.

Two years in a row, Connor spends the night of their loss with Freddie.

This year, Freddie holds him close and whispers, “I’ve got you, you’re with me now, it’s okay,” into his hair, and that’s the last thing Connor remembers before he falls asleep.

-

He doesn’t dream anymore.

He knows people are supposed to forget their dreams, but as a child his imagination ran wild whenever his eyes slipped shut. He’d dream of monsters and rollercoasters and his wildest wishes coming true, but now everything is just a little darker when he sleeps. 

It’s better this way, Connor thinks. He doesn’t want to have to think about what waits for him once he wakes up for the last time. 

-

He’s played two full seasons without injury, and something about it has Freddie written all over it. 

And, “you did it, didn’t you,” Connor says, accusatory. 

“This is your second chance.” 

“I never told you to make it injury free.” He doesn’t say it because he wants to break a leg, but it’s because he finds it impossible that he doesn’t even get ill through out the season. It’s nothing. Ever. 

Freddie shrugs, something careless and a little childish. It makes him seem years younger than Connor thinks he might really be. “I read between the lines.”

“Usually people do that to find loop holes.” Connor sucks in a little breath. “You’re giving me more than I asked for.”

“I want this to work for you.” Freddie frowns at him, like it hurts to admit. Or like maybe Connor should’ve known all along. 

“You want--oh.” 

“Be happy,” Freddie tells him, and then it’s Connor’s hand in his, and a sad little smile on his lips. “Play your hockey. I can take care of the rest.” 

Connor finds himself nodding his head before he can help it. 

-

There’s something nerve-wracking and all at once exciting about the first time he finds his lips pressed to Freddie’s, the first time Connor kisses him.

He holds on. It’s a sunday. There’s rain pattering against his window, but all he can hear in his ears is the rapid thrumming of his heartbeat as it speeds up.

Freddie’s hands are strong on his shoulders, and delicate when they slide down to his waist. His hips right after. Connor thinks he could get lost in his touch, to let him fill that greedy little space inside his head where all he needs is Freddie. The space where he just wants, and wants, wants. 

And Freddie gives. He always has. 

-

Connor wakes to Freddie’s fingers on his palm again, the lightest brush of them. He meets his gaze a minute later, barely reading the exhaustion off face. Maybe Freddie doesn’t need the sleep, but Connor knows the short nights have lead to nothing more than dropping eyes for himself.

“Hi,” he whispers, fully aware of the little smile on his lips. Especially when Freddie presses a kiss to his mouth.

“Hey,” he breathes out.

Between them there’s nothing more than companionable silence, as Freddie brings Connor’s palm closer, pressing his lips right to the skin there. 

In the back of his head, Connor wonders if this is allowed. If Freddie could get in trouble for fraternizing, if this is even what demons consider fraternizing. He has no idea how bad it could get.

Freddie looks at him like he can hear every thought that flows Connor’s head. “I like this, you know,” he tells him, wearing something soft on his face. “It’s okay, to want.” 

Connor looks at him, holding his gaze steady. He thinks it might be clear that he’s caught up in every last nerve within him, but Freddie’s fingers squeeze his hand and everything just. Fades away. Like the room collapses backwards from them and all that’s left is one another. Their own presences. 

Connor frowns, feeling his heart fall inch by inch. “I’m just one soul.”

“You mean something so much more to me,” Freddie disagrees. 

“There’s writing on my hand that I can’t even _see_ , I’m like--I’m the contract,” Freddie doesn’t pull his hand away. But Connor can feel every brush of his fingers. Every tiny stroke and the smallest loop he draws as he traces the letters. It’s all just a reminder. 

“That’s not true.” Freddie’s voice isn’t hard, instead something sweet and gentle. Like he’s speaking to a child. “You know I mean that.”

Connor looks at him, one second, two, three, and when Freddie cracks the smallest little smile at him, Connor can’t help but reel him in. “I’m going to hell,” he laughs out against his lips, and kisses and kisses and kisses him.

-

Freddie tells him, in October--a week before the 30th, the day Connor broke his ankle, “I can’t keep up my end of the contract anymore.” 

Maybe it’s the part of Connor that’s high off the game they just played that nearly squeezes a pitiful noise out of him. Or, maybe it’s just the shock that overrides his head at hearing those words, words that he _doesn’t_ want to hear that gets to him. It makes his stomach twist. Connor knows why. But he doesn’t know exactly the reason all at once. 

“What,” he blurts, and tries to scrape together the words to turn that into a question. He can’t find them, despite just how desperately he racks his brain for something. Connor can feel something sick swirl in the pit of his stomach. “You already have. I have an ankle. I’m playing hockey.” 

“What do you think gave you that ankle? Magic isn’t an end-all situation,” Freddie explains. “You were healed. You’re still being healed. Everything, all of that,” he waves at Connor’s ankle, “I could get rid of the contract and you’d be right back in a hospital bed.” 

“Why would you--you _can’t_.”

“Connor, you made a deal with a demon,” Freddie stresses, his voice not nearly low enough for the conversation between them in a quiet hallway. “You’re not going to live a long full life, you might die by 27. Maybe 30, or 31, but that’s the most you’re getting out of this.“ 

Connor blinks at him with what he thinks might be fright, maybe panic, something on his face that refuses to calm down. He can feel it, the pinch of anguish that he tries desperately to hide. “You don’t mean that,” he tells him. “You can’t.” 

“I can’t give you anymore, I--30 is lucky,” Freddie says. “Shit could hit the fan whenever. I don’t know how to control it, I’m not allowed that. I can’t cheat hell out of a soul.” 

Connor still isn’t understanding any of this. He wants to lay down. “Freddie, what does that mean.”

“I’m breaking the contract.” 

-

Connor could let feelings get in the way whenever he looks at Freddie, he thinks. He could let his heart sing a louder tune to his head, let the way Freddie’s eyes dance over him with affection and joy shape just the way he feels at all times. Or he could block them out. He could forget it.

He doesn’t. Doesn’t forget it, because maybe this is against what Freddie’s allowed to do, maybe this is too far. Further than his fake family and his goaltending and the amount of time he spends with Connor in his arms on _earth_. 

Connor exhales once. Holds his breath. And inhales. Freddie matters so much to him it hurts.

-

“ _No_ ,” Connor nearly says it in a broken sob, with the desperation he’s clutching for he isn’t sure how it came out as straightforward as it did. “No. No, you can’t do that, I won’t let you.” 

Freddie keeps walking down the hall and Connor keeps moving after him. “Freddie,” he pleads.

“We’ve already talked about this,” Freddie tells him. “And you didn’t care. So, I dropped it. But I’m not dropping this. I’m not letting you go to hell because of me.”

Connor can feel pain down to his lungs, where the air comes out in rasps. “If you do this I will _never_ play hockey again. I won’t skate. I won’t be able to do what makes me happy, what I love.” 

“Is it worth it,” Freddie says. He doesn’t ask. It comes out flat, pointed sharp like the tip of a blade. Connor feels like he’s suffocating. “For what, a few more years, is it worth it? And then what.” 

“Please,” Connor tries weakly, hand coming to Freddie’s shoulder. The fingers curl into the fabric almost on instinct. “I need this. It’s all I have.” 

“On the 30th,” Freddie tells him. “That’s it. That’s all I can do.”

All Connor can manage is a broken little gasp when Freddie tears his hand off his shoulder, and he watches him go. He can’t run after him, not if it means he might say something he’ll regret.

-

There are five missed calls on Connor’s lock screen and the rain outside his house is loud and unforgiving, crashing against his walls like waves from the ocean. 

There are five missed calls on Connor’s lock screen and all he can think about is the splash of water on his window and trying to focus on keeping his stomach from turning. Because one wrong move and he might end up hunched over a trash can.

There are five missed calls on Connor’s lock screen that make not answering back this completely new form of torture

-

“You can’t keep avoiding me,” Freddie says to him, after an early practice. Connor’s too tired to listen to him. To _hear him out_ like he’d asked. This isn’t going to go his way, he isn’t going to bend over backwards for him.

“Fuck you,” Connor spits. It’s low and easy but he’s frustrated enough to pick that fruit.

“ _Connor_ ,” Freddie says, something pleading underneath his voice. And Connor wants to come back to him, he wants to turn and put his face in the crook of Freddie’s neck and _cry_ , because Freddie’s saving him an eternity of torture but all he can think about is the crisp pinch of the arena air and the sound of ice cutting underneath the blades of his skates. Experiences he’s being robbed of. 

And Connor thinks about it too much. He thinks about Hockey. And Freddie. And _them_ , together. He does it more than he should. 

Maybe he’s happier in some other dimension. Maybe they both are. They can be.

“I don’t want to stop playing,” Connor says, feeling the ache pang inside his chest before he can even help it. It comes and goes in tight feelings that snap like strings pulled taut. 

“Oh, Connor.” Freddie frowns. “I know you don’t, I know.”

“I can’t, I don’t know how,” he blurts, and Freddie’s hands catch his forearms like he’s trying to steady him. 

“I know this is hard, okay. I--I know. But I need you to do this,” Freddie says, his voice sincere as it curls around Connor’s jaw. “You need to do this for me. Connor, I want you to have more than just hockey.” 

Connor thinks he might cry, sensing that tingle behind his eyes he always gets before he starts. Like he’s chopping onions at just the safest distance, and his gaze goes only a little bleary. He’s not crying. He’s not doing that now.

Freddie is the last of hockey he’s going to get to keep, so he holds him close and decides he isn’t going to let go until he absolutely has to. Freddie’s arms weave around him like it’s an idea mutually communicated between the both of them, and Connor doesn’t think he’d mind that. 

He melts into him and he can almost forget.

-

Connor gets to skate one last time. In an empty rink. With Freddie sitting on the divider by the benches watching him go laps right around.

Connor’s lungs are working overtime and his chest is heaving like he’s just been double shifted an entire period, but this is the last he gets of this. So he lets the air burn his cheeks and slips his eyes shut while he memorizes every last crack and crevice of the ice.

This is it.

-

Connor is twenty-six when his career ends. It’s a clear day, the world is quiet, nobody’s expecting it, and he wakes up with his ankle smarting something vicious. 

When Freddie talks to the emergency operator over the phone, hastily calling for an ambulance, Connor hears him say _my boyfriend_ and something about that makes the pain numb for just a second. Instead, it’s something in his chest that warms at that, settling soft and happy and content. 

He wants to clutch his ankle, but he takes Freddie’s hand instead, clenching his teeth and letting his breath out to Freddie’s slow instructions of, “breathe, nice and slow--yeah, that’s it.”

His palm feels empty, like he’s lost that part of his hand, but Freddie’s grip tightens. Just enough to make up for it.

-

It’s expected and unexpected all at once, apparently. According to the articles that come out. 

Freddie shakes his head and doesn’t let him read any of them, kissing him to sleep on nights where the pain’s especially bad. He runs his fingers through Connor’s hair and whispers sweet-nothings into his ear. Quiet and delicate. Here, Connor can forget, taking Freddie’s hand and trying to work through this. 

It isn’t going to be easy. It isn’t going to be quick. It’s going to be long and awful but he’s going to do it.

-

Connor’s welcomed to the Leafs org with open arms and he gets to make jokes about coaching Freddie someday, even if it still hurts. It’ll always hurt. 

But Freddie is with him through it, he presses his forehead to Connor’s and smiles and tells him, “I’m never gonna leave your side. You have me. I’m not letting anything happen to you.” 

And Connor nods his head with a melancholy smile and thinks, maybe he can do this.

With Freddie, maybe he can.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] Let Me Give You My Life](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18419255) by [Annapods](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Annapods/pseuds/Annapods)




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